


Right on Time

by jncxo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken Engagement, F/M, Post-The Sign of Three, Sexual Tension, Sexy Thoughts, The Sign of Three Spoilers, morgues are romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jncxo/pseuds/jncxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly ends things with Tom and is ready for a change. Enter our favorite Detective Inspector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right on Time

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by truthisademurelady on tumblr: "How about an extremely awkward Greg finally asking Molly out for coffee in the lab over autopsy results? Pretty please? Actually, I’d take any form of someone asking someone out anywhere in any way. Yay!"
> 
> A/N: it was nearly 1 am when I wrote this and I’m afraid my characterization of Molly is off but I CAN’T STOP SHIPPING THIS SHIP and I wanted to fill this prompt and can it just be canon already? I did the best Brit-picking I can manage whilst living in the states. if anything looks wrong blame either Microsoft Word’s UK English dictionary or the fact that I’m from Ohio.
> 
> Disclaimer: these characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, respectfully. I’m just manipulating them to aide my poor shipper heart.

It was with a heavy heart that Molly set her alarm to wake her at six o’clock the next morning. She normally wouldn’t wake herself until half past but she felt a sinking suspicion she would spend the extra thirty minutes tapping the snooze button and wondering why in God’s name she bothered getting up anyway.

“Sod it,” she muttered to herself, changing it to 6:30, and crawling under her covers for the night. She settled in, lying on her back, as she preferred to sleep, and rolled her shoulders once, wondering whether she truly relished the ache in her muscles, or her exhaustion was merely the by-product of her misery. Molly had been off work the past week, intended for her to go on holiday with Tom… What a joke. She groaned internally, rolling over so that her face was down on the pillow, and bemoaned why it was that bad things happened to good people.

Tom was a Nice Guy. That was an indisputable fact. He treated her sweetly all the while they’d dated, diligently texting back and asking permission to kiss her. He’d proposed to her at his family’s Christmas with a pretty ring and her brother’s blessing. But Tom was timid, letting her initiate all of their sexual encounters less like a man who enjoyed manhandling, and more with the attitude of a frightened puppy, and though she found his inexperience endearing, she grew tired of telling him to stick it _there_ already. It wasn’t just the sex, though. Tom was, indeed, a Nice Guy, but it seemed like that was all he really had going for him. He seemed unsure about having children, worked the bleakest of bleak desk jobs, and even seemed daunted about leaving the country for their honeymoon. And if Molly was being personally honest with herself… well, he was no Sherlock Holmes, was he?

Molly turned her head to the side, her right cheek smashed against her pillow, and peered through the darkness at the desk across the room. It was bare, now, lacking photographs of her with a certain curly-haired, scarf-wearing buffoon. Perhaps she could admit it now, that Tom reminded her of Sherlock so much it was easy to have a crush on him, even to tell herself she loved him the way a woman should love a man, because it was easy, it was familiar. Sherlock was gone when they’d met, off to save the world, no telling when or if he’d be back, and well, everyone mourns in their own way. But Tom wasn’t extraordinarily bright or sophisticated, and while he didn’t take advantage of her admiration or insult her appearance, once she’d played out every fantasy she’d ever had with Sherlock Holmes in the bedroom, all she had left was a goofy, tall boy who piped up stupid opinions at inappropriate times.

Molly sighed. She didn’t want to be mean. Tom had done nothing wrong. At the end of the day, he just truthfully wasn’t the man for her. She wanted to be with someone she could proudly stand beside, both in private and in public, that didn’t feel in any way shape or form a convenience. She didn’t want to feel the need to defend herself to anyone, to convince them _No, really, this bloke is it for me!_ And while, perhaps, Sherlock Holmes would never fit the bill, Tom was not a wise replacement.

But now… Well, now it was safe to say all of that was truly out of her system. Instead of jetting off to the French Riviera, Molly spent her free week both scrubbing her flat clean of any signs Tom had ever existed, and reorganizing both her living space and her thoughts. She needed a fresh start – a truly fresh start.

After a good night’s sleep, that was. That extra half hour would do wonders! Working herself to exhaustion ensured she could sleep until daylight and not lie awake wondering what she was doing with her life and where she must have gone wrong and if her father would be proud of her or ashamed and why the bloody hell did she ever let Sherlock Holmes dictate whether or not she wore lipstick? Molly was _ace_ , wasn’t she? She studied her arse off to get through school and land the job of her dreams. She adored working with the human body each day – it was just unfortunate that more often than not she preferred the company of the dead to the living. Perhaps she needed to resign herself to the fact that she was better at interpreting stories from an unconscious body than a mouth. There certainly was some merit to her work… Right?

_Stop it, Molly Hooper. You are smart. You are sexy. And dammit if you don’t deserve a man who makes you feel that way._

Molly sighed. She’d told herself much the same after Jim – after _Moriarty_. Jesus Christ, she sure knew how to pick ‘em, didn’t she? Molly closed her eyes, trying to picture herself trying new things and being a sexy, independent woman, and as she drifted off to sleep she mused perhaps some people just weren’t capable of feeling satisfied with their relationships.

_YO, I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!  
SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!_

Molly jerked awake, banging her head against the headboard with a sickening crack that left her eyes swimming with tears. She groped blindly for her phone, hissing, “Bugger, shit, Jesus fuck,” and when her fingers closed around her shrieking mobile she had enough awareness to feel a tad bit ashamed at her choice of ringtone before answering with a pitiful, “Molly Hooper?”

“I know it’s a few hours earlier than you were expecting but Scotland Yard’s just brought us a body and you _are_ due back today –”

“Yes, Clark, I’ll be on my way,” Molly recited as though on autopilot, already untangling herself from her sheets and shuffling across the room to switch on the lamp. She hit the “End call” button and tossed her phone at the bed before flicking the light switch and bathing the room in a yellowish glow. Toby glowered at her through slitted eyes from his resting place on the sill, and she pulled a face at him as she shimmied out of her pyjama bottoms. “I didn’t ask for the rude awakening, darling,” she clucked at him reprimanding, tossing her nightclothes aside and hunting for a clean pair of slacks. One would think a week of cleaning would make these sorts of things easier…

As a rule, Molly avoided looking at every clock in her flat as she wrapped herself in a coat and scarf and headed outside into the mist. The sky was still black, though traffic seemed typical for overnight – she wasn’t about to guess the time, it would only upset her. Still, she soldiered on, starting her car and pulling into the darkened streets of London, en route to Saint Bartholomew’s. “Some holiday,” she muttered.

Thankfully, finding a parking slot wasn’t as difficult as was typical, and twenty minutes past receiving the phone call Molly found herself in St. Bart’s morgue, straightening her lab coat and pulling on her vinyl gloves. She turned to face a haggard-looking Greg Lestrade, offering a sympathetic smile. “Shall we?”

The Chief Detective Inspector nodded absently, and Molly felt for him, with his weary eyes and ever-silver hair. He looked like _he_ could use a week’s holiday. Molly was secretly pleased, though, that Sherlock hadn’t been invited along for the ride, because she’d found from her years in the morgue that DI Lestrade could be a damned good cop, but he wouldn’t sit, stare, and overanalyse her to the point that he knew exactly what she’d been up to in the past week. Sherlock would have known in an instant everything that had happened with Tom, and would also know the reason, if he hadn’t figured out already. But Lestrade… well, even if he suspected anything was amiss he was enough of a friend to leave it well enough alone.

His case, she soon learnt, was fairly uncomplicated; a teenage girl left a suicide note downstairs after school, parents came home from work, panicked, body was found in a park near her home by an early-morning jogger. Lestrade hoped Molly could appraise the physical state of the body, which would rule out any other, more physically violent scenarios, before she began collecting samples for the toxicology report.

“I don’t see any outward physical trauma,” she remarked in a very toneless, businesslike manner, one she’d had to adopt to keep herself sane when dealing with young bodies. “My guess is drugs, of some sort, but we’ll know absolutely nothing until all the tests are done.”

“Yes, good,” Lestrade said, equally as brusque, before shaking his head once. “It’ll be difficult, with the family,” he said after a moment, his voice softer. “Usually is, in cases like this. They won’t want to believe anything that breaks their happy little façade, don’t want to think their baby girl would want out so badly.”

“Dealt with lots of young suicides, then?” Molly asked after a moment.

“Loads more than I ever wanted,” Lestrade replied, absently rubbing the back of his neck. “Heartbreaking, really. I got into this line of work because I like solving problems, puzzles, y’know? Even when I’m, well, frankly, arse deep in it and need bloody Sherlock Holmes to help me out.” He paused, settling his hands on the edge of the table, before continuing. “I like the thought that at the end of the day, the riddles get solved and justice is served. But when young girls like this – well, anyone, really – decides they’ve run their course, and they go and off themselves, well, even if we figure out _it’s Mrs. Peacock in the conservatory with the candlestick_ , there’s no comfort. No justice. They don’t feel as though the problem’s solved. It’s worse than a cold case, really, in the end. Cold cases can be resurrected. But _suicide_ … well, there’s no chance the circumstances will change, that someone’s been falsely accused. It’s a bit more difficult to stomach, the total finality of it.”

Molly’s heart broke for the Detective Inspector in that moment; her job had always been so cut and dry, _to find answers_ , which was simple, really, for the sheer fact that she _could_. It was easy to take body apart piece by piece, do inventory; she could even jot out a report on polka-dotted stationery at the end. And if, perhaps, outward evidence failed her, she could always rely on what lay beneath the surface. The only time she faced any type of difficulty was when no remains were recovered, but that only meant she had nothing to do, no role in that person’s death, which didn’t really affect her in the end, did it? But poor, poor Lestrade – _Greg_ , she reminded herself, because he’d told her many times, in the months after Sherlock’s own fall, that they didn’t have to be professional outside the office, and the way the cop was speaking to her now seemed more ‘Greg’ than ‘Detective Inspector’ – poor Greg dealt with these worries on the daily, and it wasn’t her place to vocalise that she could see the stress take its toll. Greg needed a shave, perhaps a haircut as well, and a full twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep, and, Molly mused, he could probably use someone to look after him and remind him of these things. And to offer him a good shagging when he needed a pick-me-up.

 _Dear_ God _what is wrong with me?_

Fortunately, Greg’s phone _beep beep beep_ ed, and he sighed before yanking it from his pocket and barking, “Lestrade,” his all-business tone back in place, and Molly was able to turn away without being impolite, shielding her red face from view because dear _God_ , what business did she have even thinking sexual innuendos in the presence of a teen suicide victim? She’d be lying if she even attempted to talk herself out of thinking Greg Lestrade didn’t have a certain shade of sex appeal to him, the rugged copper. A regular silver fox, if she were to be so bold. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, she could have sworn he used to get a sour look on his face anytime he saw she’d brought Tom along with her. But now was not the time or place to –

“Sorry,” Greg apologised, shaking Molly from her internal scolding, and she whirled around to him, feeling as though her face looked immensely guilty for no good reason. Greg seemed oblivious, thankfully, offering her a tired smile. “Looks as though some evidence turned up at the Burrell’s house, I’m going to go have a look-see. I’ll let you get back to, uh…” Greg made a large, sweeping gesture towards the body lying on the slab, and she couldn’t help but smile at him, and _Christ, Molly, get a grip_.

“Yes, of course,” she said neutrally. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Greg replied. “Would you, erm. I mean, after I… I could swing back ‘round and bring you some coffee?”

It took a moment for Molly to register what Greg’s words meant, and her face instantly flamed. “Sure, that’s. You don’t have to. That would be great. Lovely. Thank you.”

“So… yes. Okay, good.” Greg paused and cleared his throat. “Shall I bring one for, uh, Todd as well?” Molly felt a shiver of pleasure run through her at his creased brow. She hadn’t been imagining things then – he _had_ been annoyed about Tom, that whole time!

“You said the wrong name on purpose,” she felt herself blurting out, and she pressed her lips together tightly, eyebrows knitting.

“Did I,” Greg muttered, more of an acknowledgement than a question. “I must be spending too much time around Sherlock.”

Molly didn’t quite understand the meaning of Greg’s words, but she ploughed onward, fuelled by adrenaline and some thread of insanity making itself present in the front of her mind. “Not that it matters.” She kept her words short on purpose, playing casual, though her blood pounded in her ears. She pressed her lips together once again, this time to stifle a smile instead of words at the look of intrigue in Greg’s eyes.

“Oh?” he managed, eyes darting to her hands, folded in front of her; she’d removed her gloves, and was now displaying ten bare, ringless fingers for his viewing pleasure. “Oh. You – You aren’t. That’s. That’s, erm, I’m sorry?”

Molly felt doubt begin to creep in; Perhaps she was just rubbish at dropping hints. And why was she dropping hints in the first place? On the off chance she might snag a date? Poor Greg – did she think so little of him that she planned to take advantage of him after he’d shown even the tiniest shimmer of attraction once – no, _definitely_ twice? Molly blinked, and suddenly became aware that Greg was speaking again.

“ – because, of course, it’s none of my business, but in my honest opinion, you really could do better. And I, er. Perhaps later, when I’ve taken care of all this mess with the Burrell’s, I could come here and, and pick you up? And we could go get that coffee together?”

It was quite a sight; Greg’s face was crimson and his hair looked especially silver under the morgue lights and in that moment Molly was certain those were her two absolute favourite colours. “Yeah. Yes, okay. I would love that.”

“I meant it like a date,” Greg added, almost as an afterthought, and Molly couldn’t help the grin that split her face when she replied, “I know.”

“Right. Okay.”  The DCI nodded once, adjusted his coat, and strode from the morgue, looking a bit dazed, as though he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.

Molly was absolutely beaming as she turned to Madelyn Burrell and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. After an agonizing week, perhaps things were looking up. Greg was a Nice Guy, with the added bonus of being intelligent and, well, a bit dashing, wasn’t he? And he certainly didn’t look like any guy she’d dated before. He seemed so pleased that she’d agreed to go out with him. Yes, this had potential.

Molly glanced at the clock over the door to begin with the autopsy paperwork, and couldn’t help the smirk that came to her lips. Six o’clock on the dot. She didn’t even need to hit snooze.


End file.
